


What Does It Mean to Be a Kid, Anyway?

by Cakepopple



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, IronDad and SpiderSon, Irondad, spiderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 11:07:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21160649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cakepopple/pseuds/Cakepopple
Summary: Peter never means to miss class. He really, truly doesn’t. School and grades are important to him. But his responsibilities have been getting to be too much, and the first thing he boots off his to-do list always has to be school. Innocent people rely on Spider-Man, so school is the only thing he can afford to let go of.And that brings him to now, called into the principal's office due to falling grades and worsening attendance, with his aunt too busy to come and with no one to stand between him and the enraged man behind the desk. He feels small, like a failure, and vulnerable, until an honorary father kicks the office door in.





	What Does It Mean to Be a Kid, Anyway?

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not very proud of this tbh and i might edit this later but here you go!!! enjoy!!!

Peter never  _ means _ to miss class. He really, truly doesn’t. School and grades are important to him. Take last night as an example; he tossed his backpack beside his desk, flopped into his chair, and had every intention of completing his homework. He had been  _ excited _ to do his schoolwork. For weeks, he’d been craving normalcy in whatever form it might take, even if that might be something as loathsome as homework. More than he could measure or express, he wanted to feel like a normal person again, rather than a tool and rather than merely the title of Spider-Man.

Yet, despite all his excitement and dedication, he never got the chance to do that homework. There were things he was more dedicated to. People. Real, living, helpless people who needed him. 

It seemed like the instant he sat down that his phone buzzed with a notification from one of his (many) news apps, alerting him of a nearby crime. He always left the notifications on,  _ just in case. _ It felt like it was always  _ the case.  _ This case was same old, same old. “Police don’t know what to do; they’re not standard criminals… Things look bleak, even hopeless, as they stand now… Without the help of an avenger—” Peter was out the window before he finished even the third paragraph.

There has been a lot more of that in Queens lately. More criminals the police can’t handle. Peter wonders if he himself, as Spider-Man, is inviting the change, or if perhaps the cops are getting lazy. Why do your work when someone else is ready and willing to do it for you? 

But as a side effect of the extra vigilante outings, he’s starting to think Spider-Man is a fat wallop of  _ bothersome _ on his plate. A wallop that tastes like sleep deprivation, like cuts and bruises, like missing out on time with his friends and Aunt May. It tastes like the dark bags he can’t shake from under his eyes, and like the blood coating his cracked lips on those nights he sneaks home late. It tastes like,  _ I don’t have time to be a person anymore. _

And that’s not to say Peter doesn’t love being Spider-Man. Because he does. Nothing could ever compare to the thrill he gets when someone he helps smiles at him, thanks him, offers him gifts he feels obligated to refuse. His chest turns light and warm when he sees the true results of his efforts, when he sees how much he is able to help people. He loves it. 

Truly, he loves being Spider-Man.

But he’s losing out on so much.

Adulthood is the finish line and he can’t stop himself from running towards it—can’t slow down, either—so he’s missing all the hurdles. Homework remains unfinished, attendance records have become marked up with absences, plans with Ned continue to be canceled last minute. Peter tries to leap over each hurdle, yet they always catch on his shins and they’re always knocked over. He stains his legs with bruises each time he fails.

One bruise is forming now. A figurative bruise, of course, because he’s seated in front of the principal’s office; he’s not off fighting,  _ for once.  _ It’s because he’s been missing classes and due dates to be Spider-Man; it’s because to an outsider, he seems lazy. He knows that’s what it is. 

Peter thinks it was a mistake to show up to class this morning, since now he’s missing it anyway, having been dragged to the office as soon as a faculty member spotted him. 

The principal swings his head around the doorframe and gestures Peter in. Stuffing one hand in his pocket, Peter does as he’s told. Reluctance lines his every step, dyes his knuckles a nervous white as he tugs his backpack over one shoulder with his free hand. He’s reminded of the fight last night—the one that kept him from doing his homework—when his sleeve snags on a cut along his arm. He’s reminded of why he missed home room this morning, why he overslept by almost an hour.

It sort of feels like his thoughts and recollections have been stuffed into a ziploc bag and crushed with a hammer; all he can remember is getting the notification and heading out last night, and then he can remember this morning. There was nothing in his head about the event itself, nothing about getting home, nothing about sneaking in through his apartment window. All he knows is that May was shouting goodbye to him from the front door on her way to work. Peter had still been in the suit, having passed out just enough under the covers to make it (and his wounds) unnoticeable. Though she knows he’s Spider-Man, he doesn’t think she knows how reckless he is. How late he stays out every night. And he desperately wants to keep it that way. He’d fallen under again immediately after waking up, and the next time he came to, he looked at his phone to see first hour was almost over. 

Yet his only takeaway from the whole situation was that he’d have to ask Tony to patch up the suit later. It’s not a realization that he should probably take a step back from vigilante work, that a lapse in memory and a collection of mysterious injuries is a sign that things are out of control. He knows that should definitely be the lesson, but he doesn’t think he can  _ afford  _ to take a step back anyway. People need him. 

That’s what’s on his mind as he settles into the seat on the other side of the principal’s desk. That, and how much of a mess the man seems to be. The mess is embodied in his tired eyes, and it’s knitted into his wrinkled fingers as he draws them up to the bridge of his nose. 

“Do you know what class you’re  _ supposed _ to be in right now, Mr. Parker?” The exhausted curl of his lips and the gruff sound of his underslept voice as he speaks to Peter, makes Peter think  _ he _ is the cause of half of the grey hairs along his principal’s scalp. His breath smells like coffee; Peter feels an itch under his skin, pleading for caffeine. He doesn’t know when he got home last night, can’t count the number of hours he managed to sleep. 

Swallowing, he clenches a fist under the desk where the principal can’t see. “Spanish,” he answers. 

The principal’s voice turns sarcastic. “Oh, so you  _ do _ know! Surprising, since you’ve hardly been there this quarter.” Peter grits his teeth. Surely, there has to be a nicer way for him to get his point across than cheap blows like that. The man leans on his desk, voice slipping into plain emotionlessness again, as he ducks his face into his palms. “If you know where you’re supposed to be, how come you never seem to show up?” He slides a paper across the wood, between his multiple coffee mugs, and Peter can tell from all the red marks, before reading anything, that the page is his attendance record. “Mr. Parker, I know we’ve spoken about this before. Where do you go every day?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s not an answer—” he abruptly sighs, leaning back in his swivel chair. It groans and creaks, but still, it towers like a throne over the meager, plastic heap Peter sits upon. He feels small.

His eyes sting. He hastily averts his gaze to his lap, where he bunches his jeans between his knuckles. The tear sliding to the crease beside his nose certainly doesn’t go unnoticed by his senses, but he’s too cautious to risk the motion of swiping it away. It’s childish to cry. He can’t be seen as a child. He’s got so much riding on his shoulders, so many responsibilities, and they’re crashing down on him all at once. Being seen as a child is like being told he’s not capable of handling the responsibilities he  _ has  _ to handle. How he feels here, in the office, is like he’s being told he’s a child. 

He’s humiliated to be here. “I’m sorry, sir.”

He doesn’t want to be here.

Peter swears he never  _ means _ to miss class.

The principal stands from his chair, more than a little intimidating, and paces to the window to the waiting room. Peter watches him like a mouse watches a cat. “Every time we call you in here, all you do is apologize.” There’s a comparison to be made between his pacing principal and a circling vulture, but that would imply Peter is as good as dead. One way or another, he’s sure he is. “Which would be fine,” the principal pauses, dropping his hands onto his hips, “if I actually thought you were sorry!” Stopping in front of his desk, he leans one hand on the edge and points a finger at Peter. “Now, if you were actually sorry, you would be doing something about your poor performance.”

Peter recedes upon himself more, scrunching his shoulders around his ears. Humiliation is so thick in his veins, it feels like nausea, and his stomach churns with the need to throw up. “I...” At a loss, he slips his hands to the sides of his chair and wrenches the plastic under his nails. He feels too young, too small. A kid who has not only been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but a kid who has been shoved into the jaws of a lion as a punishment. “I’m very sorry, sir.”

“No, you’re not,” he hisses. “Did you even  _ hear _ what I said before?” His tone stings. His words are harsh and heavy, like whiplashes on Peter’s throat, until he finds he can no longer speak. Apologies aren’t coming to sit at the tip of his tongue this time. “God, and we can’t get in touch with your legal guardian because she’s at work, and you  _ clearly _ cannot handle the responsibility of fixing this on your own—”

Peter’s phone lights up with a notification. Another run in with criminals. He gets the chance to scan a few words, and he knows, two or three in, people need him. There’s something bigger than himself going on. His knees begin to bounce, his eyes dart to the door, to the window between the office and the waiting area outside. Its blinds are drawn, but he swears he can see out of it, to the crime scene he should be at. He thinks he can see and hear innocent people  _ hurting _ whenever a notification comes in, and now is no different. 

Is it spider senses? 

Is it plain nerves? 

Obligation? 

God, he needs to go.

“Do  _ not _ look at your phone when I am speaking to you, Mr. Parker!” Peter whips his attention back to the man leaning on the desk. His irritation burns in his stare, which is fixated on Peter and his own watery gaze. “This is  _ exactly _ the problem!” Silently, Peter hangs his head. 

He doesn’t want to be here.

He’s humiliated.

Ashamed.

Small. 

Young. 

_ Just a kid. _

A kid who doesn’t know what to do, who is incompetent, who is unready, who is drowning in his lack of preparedness. He hates being a kid. Because he’s not even good at that.

Suddenly, Peter can hear a commotion outside. There are doors slamming and voices shouting. Broken fragments slip under the door to the principal’s office. Bits and pieces of, “You’re not supposed to be here,” and, “Sir, please,” from someone he recognizes as the woman at the desk outside—the secretary, maybe. The racket makes its way to the door, follows the turning doorknob, and spills like an overflowing bathroom as soon as the doorway is clear. 

Holding the doorknob, with his Target graphic T-shirt askew, is Tony Stark. He’s leaning all his weight on said doorknob, as if still forcing it open, and the woman who’d previously been yelling has a fist around the back of his shirt. The two struggle for command of the newfound silence for a moment, but Tony, obviously, wins. 

“Well!” He clears his throat. His hands release the doorknob in a dramatic flourish, moving instead to those outdated glasses on his nose. Taking them off, he folds them and tucks them into his pocket, before continuing. “I was certain I was going to have to blast through the damned thing!” Half a laugh fumbles from his lips, out of breath. No one else laughs along. “Tough crowd,” he grumbles.

The principal shifts, no longer leaning on his desk, and straightens his tie. “What are you doing? Why are you here?” His jaw drops as he pronounces each syllable, making him seem that much more incredulous. The scene is preposterous. He steps around Peter and waves the woman outside away. Approaching Tony, he looks as though he has more to say, but Tony makes a face and sways forward. It’s enough to silence the principal immediately.

“Yeah, no. We’re not doing this. We both know you’re not gonna kick me out. The publicity of that would  _ not _ be in your favor, despite you likely being in the right! Celebrities have unimaginable power, you know.” Tony winks. The principal nods, hobbling, in awe, back to his swivel chair. It’s a retreat. That swivel chair, what previously existed like a throne, now seems modest in the shadow of Tony Stark. 

_ What is he doing here? _

Hastily, the principal nods. He shifts to plop down. “Of course. Sorry—”

Tony snaps his fingers. “Actually,  _ I _ want the swivel chair. You grab one of those plastic monstrosities from outside.” Once again, his statement is met with a nod, and he’s alone with Peter for a moment, as the principal scuttles outside. Like a rat or a cockroach. Dragging the swivel chair around the desk, Tony leans next to Peter’s ear and hisses, “You are a mess, kid, you know that? You are  _ so _ lucky to have me.” 

“Mr. Stark, I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“No. None of that. You’re a mess, but you’re a kid. You don’t gotta be sorry for not having your life all neat and tidy at, like, fifteen.” Tony tosses his arms up; the chair squeaks. “Hell, I don’t even have my life together and I’m a grown ass man, Pete.” 

The principal comes back in, relocates his shitty, new chair behind his desk, and folds his hands atop said desk. “I suppose you’re here in place of Peter’s Aunt?” He straightens his papers briefly, starting to slide the attendance sheet towards Tony, but the motion is ignored. Clearing his throat, he knocks his knuckle on the paper to draw attention. 

Indifferently, Tony says, “Right. Glad that’s settled. Now, we’ll be going. Pleasure meeting with you, sir.”

“Wait, but the ditching and tardies, Mr. Stark. We never spoke about them.”

Standing, Tony waves for Peter to do the same. A flick of the wrist, but the sharp look in his eyes turns the flick of the wrist into the jab of a rapier. The principal startles away at the motion, as if it was a threat. “We’ll handle it,” Tony states.

“See, I can’t just let you—”

“ _ We _ will handle it.”

There’s a brief moment of silence and tension. Tony glares; Peter’s principal cowers. It’s a mental battle—a consideration, on the principal’s part, of what matters more. One kid’s attendance record, or his reputation, as it definitely wouldn’t stand if Tony attacked it. He surrenders in the end, grinding his teeth and pointing at the door. “I had better see an improvement,” he adds, a fake victory line.

Tony chuckles. “Of course, Teach. Give the kid the rest of the day off though, yeah?” 

A crisp nod, and then Peter is ushered out the door. 

Their pace while exiting the building is brisk. Class is still in session, so there is little resistance from people moving through the halls. Even while it’s empty, Tony seems uncomfortable in Peter’s school; he keeps tugging at his collar and looking around. Maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s discomfort from having to step into Peter’s life at all. Or… Peter chances a look into his eyes and the flat line of his lips. 

Ah. The twitchiness, the fidgeting, it’s vexation. Tony is angry. 

Quickly, Peter swipes his line of sight to his feet. 

Tony opens the door for Peter, jaw set tight, and he follows him out. There’s no car waiting. “I told Happy to meet me here when I left the compound in my suit. I’m not sure when he’ll get here,” he explains. Then, he points at a bench by the student pickup lane. “Sit.” His jaw is wound too tight, compressed from all the anger he’s keeping pent up in his muscles. 

There is no resistance in Peter’s movements as he follows Tony’s instruction. He has a lot of questions, a lot of dread, and he picks at his nails as he starts digging for answers. “How did you even know?” Tony grunts in confusion, tossing himself onto the bench next to Peter—the motion jerky and rough with frustration. He leaves about a foot of space between them. Still, Peter is hyper aware of his presence nearby. “I mean, how did you even know I got called in?”

“Ah,” Tony says. He drags his glasses back out of his pocket, setting them on his nose again. “When your vitals go haywire, I get a message. With your location attached.” His body lurches forward; his elbows thud against his knees as he sets his face in his palms. “I thought… your heart rate skyrocketed, and I thought you were in real trouble, kid.” Tucking his fingers under his glasses, he rubs at his eyes tiredly. 

Peter picks at his long sleeves. “Sorry.”

Irritated, Tony sits back up. “That is  _ not _ the part you should be apologizing for, Peter.” He stuffs his fingers into his hair, rustling, before tossing them in front of him. His palms are up, like an angry shrug. “What the hell, kid? Missing classes? When I offered you a spot with the Avengers, you turned me down in favor of school, and now you’re ditching?” When he laughs, it’s dry. “I’m starting to think you just don’t like me.”

Denial compels Peter to surge forward. His hand reaches out, a frantic wave, but it never reaches its goal of Tony’s shoulder. “No! That’s not…” He doesn’t know what to say, so his hand drops from its stretch, onto his thighs. Head empty, he fiddles with the wrinkles in his jeans again. “That’s not it, Mr. Stark,” he promises.

“Then why the hell are you missing classes? Some bully giving you trouble?” At that, Tony flicks his eyes over to the school entrance again, like he’s itching for a fight. He closes some of the distance between their hunched forms when he waves his hands animatedly. The gap sits at half a foot now. Peter watches the dwindling space, like he’ll find words, an answer etched into the planks of the bench.

What can he say? 

If he says Spider-Man, the suit is as good as gone. Tony has taken it away before, and Peter has no doubts he’ll do it again if he finds out it’s a distraction. If Peter can’t prove he can handle the responsibility, he can kiss that sweet, protective shell goodbye. He’ll be back to a red and blue sweatshirt. He’ll be back to more bruises.

So, he counts the seconds of silence, waiting for a plausible lie to strike him, like a kid out past curfew. 

He’s sure his reluctance makes it obvious that is what he’s doing. 

Of course, when his phone lights up under his thigh, the way he fishes it out so quickly exposes the truth all too easily. Because Tony snatches it from his fingertips, tugs it in front of his face, and he reads the notifications littering the screen. Peter tries not to think about how his background is a picture of him and Tony together because that’s not the most embarrassing admittance today. 

“How many different news apps do you need, kid?” And the lightbulb flashes above Tony’s head suddenly, widening his eyes as he clicks Peter’s phone off. “So, a makeshift police scanner of sorts,” he whispers. Buzzing his lips, the tension leaves his shoulders. “This is about  _ that,  _ then. Spider-Man.”

Peter turns away from Tony, watching cars rolling about in the parking lot. They’re sluggish; there are only a few, but he’ll take anything to keep himself distracted from the disappointment undoubtedly drawn deep into Tony’s features. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “I’m sorry.” Once again, he begins to feel humiliated to be here. He feels small and childish and incompetent. He wants out. Craves escape like an addict craves a drug. Peter wants to run home, curl up under his sheets and nurse his wounds and his wounded pride. “Guess you want the suit back,” he breathes.

A swish of air passes through Tony’s teeth, a whistled sigh, and Peter sees him shrug from his peripheral. “The discussion hasn’t reached that point yet, no.” He turns, tucking one leg under himself to face Peter fully. His hand cups Peter’s shoulder. Peter slowly, tearfully raises his head to meet his mentor’s eyes. “Talk to me. We’ll get to that part of the conversation, but let’s start with why you’re prioritizing things like this.” 

Wiping his sleeve under his nose, Peter yanks his sneakers up onto the bench. Only his heels stay; he knots his arms around his knees to keep them there. His nose quickly finds a place hidden in the fabric of his sleeves. “It’s just—there have been more and more big crimes here. All the time, reports say police can’t stop them. People get hurt, Mr. Stark. And if I don’t help…” He moves his chin down, tucks it further into his knees. Curling his toes, he finishes, “If I don’t help, it’ll by my fault.”

Tony pokes his bicep. “First of all, no. It would not be your fault.” Peter lifts his head to deny the statement, but Tony speaks again. “Uh-uh. Adult talking. I have authority.” He sighs again, face looking older than it did a second ago. It makes Peter feel so much younger. An infant by comparison, and infants can’t do anything to help people. Peter feels useless. “I know it  _ feels _ like it’s your fault,” Tony explains, “but in the end, it’s still the criminal’s fault.”

“But—”

“No but’s, no if’s.” Relenting, Peter curls onto his knees once more. “Now, part two. You do not have to add ‘protecting every single human life’ to your list of responsibilities, kid. You cannot save everyone. I know you want to and, truly, it’s a very noble goal, but you’re going to kill yourself the way you’re going.” 

Peter huffs, muttering, “Other than stupid school, I’ve got things under control.”

He tries to ignore the blatant way Tony laughs. “Are you sure? I’m pretty sure  _ I _ had to pick you up from your little escapade last night. I had to sew a few of your wounds closed, too.” Peter gawks, then turns away, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, of  _ course _ it was you. And here I thought I was just a blackout adrenaline-drunk.” Guilt settles into his stomach, dripping all the way to his feet. The feeling burns like needles in his skin. He’d dragged Tony out late at night, probably in a panic, to help him because he was reckless. Because he threw himself headfirst into danger, without an escape plan. Peter would have bled out in an alley somewhere without him. And now, Tony has been dragged to school again, helping him yet another way. It’s disgraceful, needy, and it’s ungrateful for all Tony has already done for him. It’s childish. He  _ hates _ appearing childish. “I’m sorry.”

It’s probably his greatest fear around Tony. Seeming childish. Whenever he messes up, that’s the first thing Tony points to and, over the handful of months they’ve known each other, the subject has scabbed over into a sore spot of sorts. At least for Peter. For Tony, it’s probably merely a scapegoat; he most likely uses it to avoid insulting Peter’s competence as a whole. Even so, it drives Peter up a wall. It  _ still _ feels like an insult to his competence. When Tony brings up a mistake and implies it’s not merely a mistake—rather, a side effect of being young—it pesters like dirt under Peter’s nails.

So, when Peter’s voice gives way like it often does, when his hands start to shake and his eyes start to water, when he is reminded of his own youth, he feels something sink to the pit of his stomach. Like he’s got a stone tied to his ankle and he’s been thrown into the ocean, and now he’s drowning, unable to get to the surface, gulping and choking on water. Salt water fills his gut and coats his lungs, overflowing as tears from his eyes, and he gets sick.

He hates being a kid.

That’s normal for people his age, but it’s something more for him, in a field full of highly acclaimed adults such as Tony Stark. 

In a world like that, being a kid is more than distasteful.

It’s deplorable.

It means being a  _ failure.  _

Peter chokes on that feeling of incompetence now, like pneumonia in his lungs, missing a few of Tony’s words as a result. They blur before the rest swoop in and Peter’s awareness of the world around him comes together again. 

Tony waves his hand as he says, “Now, don’t get me wrong, that shit was nasty. Please do not rely on me to be your doctor frequently.” He sets that hand on Peter’s head, ruffling his hair, and adds, “But, Pete, that’s not the takeaway here. What I’m trying to point out is that I’m here to help you. You are  _ allowed _ to need adults.” His voice gets easier; he laughs. “That’s the whole thing about kids! You rely on us! So,” he trails off, wrinkling around Peter’s hair again, and he turns his gaze to the parking lot. “Ask for help. No matter what, I will always drop whatever I’m doing if you need me.” 

Something is left unfinished in his tone. A melody incomplete, but he retreats a little, arms crossing over his chest, so Peter doubts he can fish that last bit out of him. Even so, he can see it buried deep in his mentor’s eyes.

He distances himself from the question of,  _ what more? _ Instead, he thinks back to the topic of his age. The way Tony puts being a kid isn’t so bad, Peter thinks. It’s codependence. That’s healthy. 

Peter begins to ponder over if being a kid in general is healthy, too. Even as Spider-Man, being a kid means asking for help. He’s been thinking of his age as failure, but maybe it merely means teamwork.

“Can we make a robot to help people out when I can’t? A little spiderling?” He’s quieter, softer, than he wants. It still sounds too much like a kid asking, in his opinion, but Tony smiles at the request for help. It’s a step in the right direction. A start towards codependence, towards teamwork.

“Sure, Pete.” He scratches the back of his head. The motion is sheepish. “Already on it, actually.” Peter gives a surprised laugh, unfolding himself from the knot he’d formed with his legs and arms earlier. “And if you promise to focus more on your studies…” Tony points, draws the statement out, moves his finger around to make sure Peter is following, and finally concludes with, “then I’ll promise to keep a better eye on crime activity here in Queens. I’ll personally help out. How about that? Deal?”

Eagerly, Peter nods. He swings his legs, so his shoes scuff on the sidewalk, and swims in giddiness at the prospect.  _ A break. A break that doesn’t come at the expense of innocent lives.  _ A break isn’t failure, here; it’s sharing the workload. He isn’t alone. Is that what his age means? Not having to be alone?

After a fleeting moment of silence, he turns to Tony with a tangible smile on his cheeks and with every intention of speaking. But right as he gathers his thoughts—his short and sweet thank you—Happy pulls into to the pickup lane, rolls down the window, and waves Tony over. Tony stands, hands in his pockets, and Peter loses his grip on that thank you. 

He follows Tony and he makes peace with his wordlessness, until Tony stops. His mouth fumbles like he’s struggling for air as he scrabbles for words. The depth previously left unspoken rides on his body language. Peter reads it in the nervous shifting of Tony’s thumbs on the seams of his pockets and the twitchy tilt of his head one direction, then the other. He’s digging his deeper thoughts from the back of his head, and Peter watches him struggle to do so.

“I…” Tony hums in thought. Distractedly, he scratches the back of his head. “I didn’t mean to say I’m only helping you because you’re a kid.” Awkwardly, he drops his hand onto Peter’s shoulder again, and this time, the squeeze that follows is unsure. “That’s not quite it, I just don’t know how to…” The noise he makes is distressed and tired, though it sounds like a scoff. His hand drifts back to his pocket, face spelling out that he is retreating from the attachment contact with Peter would indicate. 

Peter gingerly—even cautiously, like either one of them is made of wet newspapers—reaches out to Tony, pats him on his forearm. “Don’t worry about it! I got the message.” He moves to sidle around Tony, hand falling into place around the car door handle, but Tony catches his arm.

Shaking his head, he winces. “No, I’m not gonna be able to sleep if I let you go home thinking that.” He sucks a breath in. “It’s not that you’re a kid, Peter. It’s more that you’re… you’re my responsibility.” Peter frowns, more insulted by that statement than the prior. Mouthing the word  _ rude, _ he crosses his arms. From that interpretation, he’s nothing more than a box on a checklist. Being considered a kid is awful, but that’s somehow even worse, which he hadn’t previously believed was possible. “Okay, you’re right. That was bad. I mean, you’re not a responsibility as much as you are—” he groans. “I’ve dug myself into a hole here, huh. Alright, I’m gonna spit it out—You’re not just a kid. What I’m saying is you’re  _ my _ kid.” Tony huffs now that his words are in the air, too heavy to breathe in and fully absorb in one go. “Like your Aunt May looks out for you… I will, too, Peter. That’s what I mean. You’re my kid.”

Peter waits for that sentiment to settle in his ears and his lungs. It fills his body like a syrup, and he smiles when he finally begins to understand exactly what it is Tony has implied. He lets it get to his head a little. Punching Tony lightly in the arm, he laughs. “Oh, so you actually care about me! What an absurd concept!”

Tony guffaws, swerving out of the way of another of Peter’s punches. He seems genuinely affronted by Peter’s surprise, personally insulted by the sarcasm. That only fuels the teasing—which Peter temporarily feels he can do, as Tony, admittedly, cares about him. It serves to provide him with the snarky, internal question of,  _ oh what is he gonna do? Disown me?  _ It’s like a short lived invincibility. 

“What do you—of course I care about you!” Tony takes his hands out of his pockets to set them on his hips. “I don’t give multimillion dollar suits to just every kid in the state of New York, Peter.” He shakes his head, looking almost like he regrets admitting attachment, but it’s just such. It’s only an almost.

Mellowing out a tad, Peter grips the car door handle again. “No, no, I get you. I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down,” he drawls, following it with a giggle. He pops the door open and steps one leg in. His next words are gentle as they rise from his chest, and he’s pleased with how they come out. The tone is exactly what it should be. Mature enough, but sincere enough, as well. “You’re my adult, too. You, and Aunt May, and Happy, and Ms. Potts… you all look out for me. You’re my adults.” 

Peter can feel the gears of his head shifting to new places, rearranging his understanding of the concept of childhood. He thinks it’s for the better. While he slides into the backseat, skidding across so Tony has room, he mulls it over. And he feels more at peace with things; his perspective has changed.

Tony is right. Peter is not alone, and he doesn’t have to pretend to  _ want _ to be alone, either. He is allowed to need help, to need other people, because that’s what he’s supposed to do, anyway. There’s a reason kids have guardians. They’re supposed to depend on people, on people who have been around longer, who have seen more, who know more. They’re supposed to depend on people who can  _ help. _

Baffled, he considers how it only took one conversation to change his perspective on his age so completely. Suddenly, his mere reciprocation of the sentiment of attachment Tony expressed doesn’t seem like enough. 

He thinks the moment, the interaction, deserves a holiday, like a birthday of a new concept to him. 

The conversation at least deserves a card. 

It feels like he thinks Father’s Day would feel, if he’d ever gotten the chance to spend one with his father.

That’s what Tony feels like to him, he realizes.

And easily, he’s struck with the need for a better scripted  _ thank you. _ No simple regurgitation of the same line. Half of caring is actually  _ showing _ you care. Repetition shows little to nothing.

As Tony begins to shut the car door, Peter reaches over him to grab the handle in his place. It’s a sudden, impulsive idea. He thinks it might work anyway. Tony makes a squinty, furrowed-brow face in response to Peter’s choice, but quickly retracts his hand from the door nonetheless. Slowly, he asks, “You forget your homework or something?” 

Grinning at the misconception, Peter begins to fully trust his plan; Tony’s reaction is reminiscent of the memory he’s going for.

“No, I’m just grabbing the door for you,” he answers, echoes from months ago, but in the opposite direction. Realization flashes on Tony’s face, and he gets a sappy, nostalgic wrinkle at the corner of his eye. Peter thinks he’s welcome to go in for the hug this time, so he pulls the door shut and drags his arms away from it. Before he can center them where he needs to for that hug, though, he’s beaten to the punch. 

Ducking his head over Peter’s shoulder in the cramped car, Tony drapes his arms around Peter’s back. 

And it feels like he thinks Father’s Day should feel.

Peter returns the hug quickly, thoughtlessly, as giddiness sparks in joints. 

All the while, he decides something. He resolves the issue, the issue he’s struggled with since being forced to battle the responsibilities of adults at his age. The issue of feeling too young, too overwhelmed. The issue of feeling belittled by the mere statement of what he is, a kid. Because before, being a kid seemed like a bad thing. It meant being weak.

Yet now, he thinks about it and relates it to what Tony had said to him.

_ I’m here to help you. You are allowed to need adults. _

_ Like your Aunt May looks out for you… I will, too, Peter.  _

_ Ask for help. No matter what, I will always drop whatever I’m doing if you need me. _

_ You’re my kid. _

Peter smiles, eyes burning, into the hug.

He decides that as long as he has adults like Tony around, being a kid is a good thing. 

**Author's Note:**

> like this doesn't flow as well as i want?? it's OKAY, but it could be better ;-;  
still!! please comment and kudo! :')  
[marvel blog!](https://peterparkerincorrectquotes.tumblr.com/) (it has hc asks, short blurbs of writing, and original memes!)  
[writing blog!](https://cakepopple.tumblr.com/)


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